


20th Century American Poetry

by lottegitchberg



Series: Hampden [1]
Category: Dead Poets Society (1989)
Genre: 2010s, 80s romcoms, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Longing, Love Triangles, Rich white boys, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Teen Angst, college students, shameless self-insertion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:54:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21907810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lottegitchberg/pseuds/lottegitchberg
Summary: I KILLED NEIL PERRY BECAUSE HE WAS TOO POWERFULThis is basically a slightly more sophisticated version of the fanfiction Tina Belcher wrote about people in Bob's Burgers, except with the characters of Dead Poets' Society who I basically paired up with people I knew. If you hate it, I get it, because this basically spiralled out into an original novel, but I'm having fun!Fun Romcom-y Blurb:Carrie Arnold has a good life: she's attending one of the best schools in the country, amazing friends, and a fantastic boyfriend. If only he wasn't still in love with his ex.
Relationships: Charlie Dalton/Original Female Character(s), Knox Overstreet/Original Character, Todd An, Todd Anderson/Original Character(s)
Series: Hampden [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1578031
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! I started this a little over a year ago, and I don't know if it's what the majority of the DPS fandom will like(ikilledneilperrybchewasnomatchformyselfinsertcharacterimsorry), but I had a really fun time writing this. If it's not what you like, it's all good, but if you do feel free to let me know!

PART ONE  
CHAPTER ONE  
“You know I hate it when you smoke.”  
It’s almost October, and I’m lying on the bed in Knox’s dorm next to him, while he smokes relentlessly. He told me he started in his junior year at Welton, as a way to cope with the stress of his workload, but I have absolutely no empathy for it.  
“You like it.”  
“No, I don’t.”  
“You do, you find it sexy. Like I’m one of the movie stars in those old films that you like.”

Admittedly, he’s right. Ever since I saw Humphrey Bogart light up a cigarette and found it insanely dashing, I’d realised that my taste in both men and movies was rather old fashioned.  
“Yeah, well,” I say, pulling the cigarette from his lips, “you’re no Gregory Peck,” then leaning over him and stubbing it out in the ashtray on his bedside locker.  
“He could never compete,” and I laugh and kiss him, grazing my thumb over his chin. Knox dresses and walks with the confidence and preppiness of an old money protagonist in a screwball comedy. So, when I’d first seen him, across a dorm room, the weird junior at a freshman party, while I huddled in the corner talking to Leah, it didn’t exactly surprise anyone when I went for him.  
“I should go back to my dorm,” I make to get up but Knox grips me at the waist, pulling me back, groaning.  
“I have to study!” I protest, and Knox rolls his eyes.  
“You’re a film major, you have absolutely nothing to be studying for-”  
“Thanks for the confidence boost, Warren Buffett.”  
There’s a knock on the door.

“Carrie?” It’s Leah.  
I smile at Knox. “And that’s my cue,” I button up my jeans and pick up my coat, and open up the door.  
“Hey, you good to go? They’re taking registration for American Poetry.” A beat. “Hi, Knox.”  
“Hi, Leah.” That’s as much affection for Knox that Leah can muster. She looks back to me. “Ready to go?”  
“Yeah,” I turn back to Josh. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

“SO, WHY EXACTLY are we signing up for a weekly class on 20th Century American Poetry again?” I ask, as we trek across Hampden campus, Leah already a few yards of me, chomping noisily on a pastry.  
“Well,” she starts, wiping her mouth, “It’s an elective, it’s-” she takes a bite- “- like you said, weekly,”-another bite- “and we’re young feminists working towards liberal arts degrees, so I don’t think a class on Anne Sexton is going to shake us to our core.” She swallows, then starts chewing again.  
“Someone’s got the munchies, huh?”  
“Me and Zainab lit up about an hour ago, when we were drawing.”  
“Yeah, I think most of Hampden campus knows it.”  
“Shut up,” She checks her phone. “Aaand Meeks says they’re capping the class at 15 people, so yeah, we better run,” she shoves the remains of the danish in its paper and into her pocket.

When we get there, there’s maybe 12, 13 people there, so we’re just under the wire. Surrounded by his soon-to-be students sits a small, robust-looking middle aged man with an absent-minded smile on his face as Richard Cameron (teacher’s pet, and also total creep) badgers him with questions about required reading. As he sees me write my name, he winks, before answering Cameron’s question.

“Hey Leah! Carrie!” We turn around.  
“Steven!” I cry, rushing to hug him.  
“How was your summer?”  
“Good! Spent it working, you?” At the end of every semester in Hampden I have to move back to Ohio with my family and work to save up the money for next semester. I barely saw Knox this summer because of it.  
“The same,” Meeks smiles ruefully. Like me, Meeks is a scholarship kid, something uncommon in Hampden, and shares a love of 80s sci-fi.  
“Really? You haven’t started your own Microsoft yet?” Leah teases. Unlike me, he’s an engineering major and an undisputable genius.  
“Are you up for making another zombie romcom?” jokes Pitts, sidling up to the three of us. Pitts is Meeks’ best friend and also a film major. Last year, he shot a short film I wrote that was basically Sixteen Candles but the cake contained a strain of the zombie virus, so they contained their date as zombies. It was a star turn for Leah as Zombie Ringwald, but Professor Garrahy found it “inexplicable, and yet totally uninspired.”  
“I’m down for it,” I smile.  
“Actually, I meant to ask,” says Meeks, “What are we going to screen this season?”  
“Well,” I start, “we did do spaghetti westerns and new wave last year..”  
“I am not watching another John Wayne movie if it kills me,” says Leah.  
“We could meet up at the auditorium later and discuss it then?” Pitts suggests.  
Leah and I look at each other and nod, and Meeks shrugs. “Sounds good, see you then!” He looks over at the registration desk. “Come on, Todd.”  
Todd Anderson, a friend of theirs with an obvious but harmless crush on me is hovering awkwardly by the registration desk, waiting for Pitts and Meeks to finish up theit conversation. Leah nudges me and I roll my eyes. He smiles at us as he catches up with Pitts and Meeks, reddening and muttering hi.

“Dear Lord,” says Leah when they’ve gone, “You have to put him out of his misery. The poor dude wants to marry you.”  
“He’s said two words to me,” I say, making my way back to my room, “And that was when I said good morning at the vending machine one time.”  
“Epic love stories have started that way.”  
“Yes, because my boyfriend would love that.”  
“A great inconvenience,” and I smack Leah on the arm.  
“Well, I’ll see ya.”

“Are you not gonna get high with me and Zainab before we meet for film club?”  
“Nah, I’m going to study with hang out with Knox for a while.”  
“Christ, are you joined at the hip for something?”~  
“I saw him ONCE this summer.”  
“Uch, fiine.”  
Chris Natworth and one of her friends pass us. To be polite, I smile. Chris smiles back, a beat too late, and looking away. Lovely.

JURY DUTY  
A NEWSPAPER OFFICE  
WOMAN, 30S  
WOMAN, 30S,BRITISH, AMERICAN

“Christ, you’re still working on that thing?” In barges Josh, not bothering to knock.  
“I have to get a good start on it.”  
“It’s not due till March.”  
“Hence, why I need the headstart.”  
“It’s September.”  
“I need to get it perfect.”  
“Nothing’s perfect.”

Last summer Professor Garrahy said I was a competent and skilled screenwriter, but I relied too heavily on tropes and lacked an original voice, and would need to work harder if I wanted to excel in the industry. Knox is a global business major, but nothing would happen if he started handing in subpar work, or even dropped out. For me, I have to get things perfect.  
“Well, this has to be.”  
Knox leans down and starts kissing the side of my neck, one hand clapped on my waist. I wriggle out of it. He sighs and sits down, playing with one of the pens on my bed. I take off my glasses (I’m 19 and I need reading glasses, I know.) and pinch the bridge of my nose.  
“I’m sorry.”  
“I know.”  
“I just want it to be perfect.”  
Knox lets out a small sigh. “I know.”, in that horrible way someone does when they’re trying to placate you. There’s a small pause.  
“Do you want to go with me to film club tonight?” I ask, even though Leah would not like that at all, but I want to make it up to him. “It’s just a meeting, but it’d be cool to hang out.”  
“I can’t, I told Sean I’d go with him and a couple of friends to Matchsticks.”  
“Oh.” A beat. “Does that mean Chris will be there?”  
“Carrie.”  
“I’m just curious,” I protest weakly. It’s my worst trait.  
“Come on, we’ve been over this-”

“I know, but I- “ I feel stupid now, “I barely saw you this summer, and now you’re going off to Matchsticks with your ex-girlfriend-”  
“Chris is in my social circle, we’re family friends, I can’t help but see her.”

As far as I can follow it, Knox's family are business partners with another family, which Chris is a cousin of, and she met Knox when he was at Welton. It was a real kick in the teeth picturing Chris in tennis skirts on their numerous business-casual outings while her uncle and Knox's dad talked shop.  
“I know.” I feel so stupid now. “I’m sorry.”  
He stands up, the small smile I know so well playing on his lips, and gives me a quick kiss.”  
“I’ll see you tomorrow, I’m all yours then.”

“OKAY, SO WE’VE NARROWED IT DOWN TO FOUR IDEAS,” I yell up to Meeks and Pitts, who are fiddling with the projectors. Leah is sitting in one of the seats, slurping noodles and doodling in her sketchpad.  
“GO AHEAD,” Pitts yells back. Rather charmingly, no-one else has bothered to show up to this meeting, from last year apart from the four of us.  
“INGMAR BERGMAN,”  
Meeks makes a face.  
“MURDER MYSTERIES,”  
“NO-ONE CAME TO SEE AND THERE WERE NONE LAST YEAR,”  
“Okay,” I say, “NOIR?” Pitts shakes his hand flat in the air- lukewarm.  
“LOVE AND ALIENS: THE BEST OF 80s SCI-FI AND ROMCOMS.”  
They pause for a second. Pitts is considering it.  
“I mean,” he starts, “We are learning about comedies, and When Harry Met Sally is on our course this year.”  
“And people are super nostalgic for 80s stuff right now,” I offer, “So maybe we could get more people in.”  
“Suits me,” Leah shrugs.  
Meeks crinkles his nose. “Could we screen Alien?”  
I smile. “And Blade Runner.”  
Meeks smiles. “Alright. What’s our first movie of the season then?”  
“Fatal Attraction,” says Leah. Pitts, Meeks, and I exchange looks.  
“Fatal Attraction?” says Pitts, an eyebrow raised.  
“Fuck yeah. I love that movie.” I’ve known Leah since the first day of freshman orientation, but even now she still surprises me. Whose favourite movie is Fatal Attraction?”  
“It’s not really a sci-fi or romcom..” Meeks trails off  
“Well, I mean,” Leah leans forward, “Isn’t it kind of a romcom though? Like, ironically?”

“CHRIST, YOU STINK,” I mutter as Leah and I walk back from the auditorium. “The dining hall is not going to let you in.”  
Leah rubs at her eyes. “They’ll have to, I’m their best customer.”  
“Dartman, you lit a doobie without me? I’m heartbroken.” We turn around. It’s Charlie Dalton, and Leah just rolls her eyes.  
“Yeah,” says Leah, “I’ve read a couple studies about how weed can reduce sperm count, and I guess I couldn’t risk depriving the world of your future capitalist Nazi offspring.”  
Charlie Dalton is one of the richest boys in Hampden, and his parents are regular donators to the school. Thus, he’s remarkably lazy and rarely hands work in, yet at no detriment to his grade (he’s a business major, like his dad, and will likely follow him into the family business.)  
Leah, fairly well off herself, believes that this makes him an “entitled privileged capitalist prick.”

“Aww, have you picked out names?”  
“Yes, Nazi One and Nazi Two, and they give you testicular cancer.”  
“Jeez, the lady doth speak of my dick too much.”  
“Oh my gosh, that was beautiful, you should be an English major.”  
“There’s more where that came from,” Dalton smirks.

Rather unfairly for an “entitled privileged capitalist prick”, Dalton is fairly good-looking. Leah admitted once that she did find him objectively attractive, but found his personality too abhorrent to consider him as an actual option. Sometimes I wonder if Dalton knows this.

“And what I wouldn’t do to read them,” Leah snarks.  
“You won’t have to do anything, I’ll be in your poetry class.”  
Wait, what?  
“Wait, what?” says Leah. “You’re taking American Poetry?”  
“Yeah.”  
Leah looks at him like he’s actually insane. “Why?”  
“Gotta romance you somehow, don’t I?”  
“No, but seriously, it’s an 8am class and it’s an elective, why did you choose it?!”  
Dalton looks at me, smirking conspiratorially. “She doesn’t understand my excellent plan, Arnold. Well, see you at 8am ladies,” and he runs back down the hall. As soon as he’s out of sight, I burst out laughing, and Leah shoves me.  
“Speaking of 80s romcoms..” I say.  
“Oh shut up, your boyfriend dresses like Cary Grant.”


	2. 20th Century American Poetry: An Introduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this one we meet Keating! And drama happens!

CHAPTER TWO  
Carrie Arnold to Knox Overstreet at 00:15 a.m.   
Hey, did you get home safe?

“I HAVE NO IDEA how I’m going to get up at 8am once a week for an entire schoolyear,” grumbles Leah, as we stomp through autumn leaves to get to 20th Century American Poetry, which is way off Hampden campus.  
“Well, you stayed up once until 8am cramming for an art history exam, so this is kind of the same thing,” I say, still groggy myself.

Keating’s classroom is practically a cabin, and so Leah and I’s attempts to make a good impression by sitting in the front row doesn’t make much of an impact. A couple minutes later, Pitts, Meeks, and Todd wander in.

“How’d you find waking up?” says Meeks, pulling his hat off and undoing his scarf.  
“Soul-crushing, and you?” says Leah, opening her sketchpad.  
“Pretty much the same,” says Pitts, “We would’ve caught up with you ‘cept Princess here-” he tugs at Meeks’ scarf- “was still working on his layers.”  
“Hey!” snaps Meeks, “Leave me alone, I have poor circulation.”  
“It’s September, you baby, you weren’t exactly going to freeze to death.”  
“He’s delicate, Pitts,” says Leah, teasing.  
“Delicate?” I joke. “Have you met Meeks?”  
Pitts grabs Meeks’ tiny, skinny wrist. “Look at this bulk! Look at this gain! Look at this MASCULINE physique!”, and Meeks shoves him and takes a seat next to us, Pitts and Todd following suit.  
“Oh yeah,” I say, “Are we still good to screen Fatal Attraction tonight?”  
“Yup,” says Meeks, pulling the poetry book out of his satchel. “You still good to sell tickets?”  
“Yup,” says Leah, drawing a small animal in the corner of the page of her sketchpad.  
“Cool.”  
Todd is awkwardly thumbing through his poetry book, trying not to eavesdrop, and I make a mental note to invite him to the screening.  
“GOSH, this place is tiny,” Dalton scoffs, Richard Cameron, Emma Mason and Cassie Radnall following behind. As she passes us, Emma looks pointedly at Todd, who doesn’t look up from his poetry book. Owch.  
“What, missing your McMansion?” sneers Leah, and Dalton puts a hand to his heart in mock sorrow.   
“No, why? You thinking of moving in?”  
“I dunno, I think I’ll need to hear a couple of poems first.”  
“Patience, grasshopper,” says Dalton, taking a seat, “All in good time.”

I GO TO HAMPDEN, so weird college professors aren’t exactly uncommon for me, but, damn, Professor Keating really takes the cake.

He stands up on his tiny rickety desk, staring at us until we shut up. When there’s finally silence, he says: “So. Why are we here?”   
There’s an awkward silence and Pitts tries to help him out. “Um, poetry, sir?”  
“Excellent observation, now we may begin. As many of you know, I am Professor Keating, and what I am here to do, in this charming little cabin I have been downgraded to, is to redefine your idea of poetry. But, what I’m really trying to do, by changing your idea of poetry, is to enable you to change your lives.”  
Leah and I exchange looks.  
“Now,”he says, stepping down from his desk, “While you can tell I’m a little zany, I’m not stupid. I’m under no impression that anyone took this class looking to be the next Flannery O’Connor.” There’s a couple sniggers.   
“When I say poetry you think metaphor, simile, meter, rhyme, technique, and by doing so you neglect the brilliance and romance and danger of these poets, how often against all odds they defied their circumstances in order to live extraordinary lives. While I doubt many of you will pursue poetry beyond a hobby, these poets and their works may allow you to make your own lives extraordinary, regardless of what you seek to do with your major.” There’s another silence.

“Actually, just out of curiosity, how many English majors are here?” Todd, Emma, and another girl’s hands go up.  
“Art majors?” Just Leah.  
“Film majors?” Pitts and I raise our hands.  
“Psychology majors?” Cassie Radnall and two other girls’ hands go up.  
“Engineering majors?” Just Meeks.  
“Business majors?” Dalton and Cameron raise their hands.  
“God, this is like the freaking Breakfast Club,” I hear Dalton mutter to Cameron.

“WHATCHA THINK OF HIM?” says Pitts, as we walk across campus.  
“Bit strange, seems pretty cool though.”  
For all Keating’s weirdness, the course seems pretty straight-forward: for the first term, we’ll be studying four poets- once in class, but we’ll have to do extra research on them outside of class for our presentation due at the end of term-, and we’ll start work on the beats before Christmas break.

Meeks and Todd are walking ahead of us, and I’m about to catch up and invite Todd to the screening, when he says goodbye to Meeks and heads in the other direction.  
“Hey, Meeks?”  
“Yeah?”  
“Is Todd coming with you and Pitts to see Fatal Attraction?”  
“Uh, probably not, no, why?”  
“Well, would you ask him?”  
Meeks smirks. “Have you finally seen the light then?”  
I roll my eyes at him, already hearing the implication. “No, but I know we were talking about it in class and he seemed left out, so just ask him for me, would you?”  
“A pity invite, attractive.”  
“Shut up. Will you, though?”  
“Sure.”  
“Good, see you tonight.”

I spot Sean Danbury, one of Josh’s friends hanging out in the hall, chatting to what looks like a freshman girl. Sean has a reputation for going almost exclusively for freshman girls: courting them, sleeping with them, and then ghosting and effectively abandoning them. In a couple of weeks I’ll probably see that same freshman girl around the dorms crying.  
“Hey, Sean.”  
He spots me and visibly stiffens, as charming and slightly afraid of poor people as always.  
“Hey, Carrie.”  
“Have you seen Knox?”  
“Uh, yeah, he should be in his room..”  
“Great, thanks.”  
“He’s pretty hungover, though, so maybe wait..”  
“Nah,” I laugh, “It’ll be fine, I’ve seen him worse.”

UNLIKE KNOX’S USUAL HANGOVERS: lying on his bed, listening to white noise with his forearm draped over his eyes, instead he’s sitting upright, at his desk, staring blankly at papers on it.  
“Hey.”  
He brightens a little. “Hey.”  
“How was your night?”  
“Good,” he yawns. “I got back at around 2 so I slept most of the booze off.” And didn’t bother to check his texts. Owch.  
“Really? You’re still in your coat.”  
He chuckles, rubbing his eyes. “I was really wasted, I must’ve slept in it.”  
“Oof.” I walk over to him, putting my arms around him and burying my face in his neck and the collar of his coat. Sean wasn’t wrong about the hangover, he absolutely reeks, but I ignore this.  
“Do you want me to stay over,” I murmur, “We can watch a dumb movie and..”  
“Other stuff.”  
“Other stuff.”  
“Nothing would make me happier.”  
Grinning, I start to help him out of his coat when an eye catches on something glinting slightly in the lapel. I pull out a hair, thinking it’s mine, except this one is short, and butter blonde.  
“What’s this?” I say quietly. I hold it up to Josh. He awkwardly jerks away from it, and me.  
“Uh, one of the coatgirls must have-”  
“Matchsticks is a bar. Bars don’t have coatgirls.”  
“Well, I must have left it-”  
“This is Chris’”  
“No, look, she must have brushed against me or something-”  
“Bullshit.”  
“Carrie, come on, you’re reading too much into this!”

And he’s right. I probably am. To an outsider I probably look psychotic. But Knox’s eyes keep darting and his hands keep fidgeting, his nails dragging on the wool of his coat. He abruptly, unnaturally reaches for my hand and I sharply pull it away, standing up and away from him.  
I feel my mouth go dry. “Did you sleep with Chris last night?”  
A beat. “No.”  
“You’re dressed in the same clothes you wore last night, you didn’t answer any of my texts and thirty seconds ago I just pulled one of her fucking hairs out of your coat, I’d really appreciate the truth right now-”  
“Okay! Let me explain,” he sighed, “We were very drunk, and yes, we did make out a little and she did bring me back to her room-”

I can feel the blood move in my ears.  
“But we were too drunk to do anything, she just let me sleep, look, I’m sorry, but it was just one..” he trails off.  
I think I’m going to be sick. “Carrie? Carrie?”  
I can hear Knox standing up and walking over to me.  
“Carrie, are you okay?” He touches the back of my neck and I don’t respond.  
“You’re fucking appalling.” I stare at the floor.  
“I know, I know, but it was just one time-” he’s trying to clasp my hand between the two of his, I wriggle it away “,-we can work through this.”  
“One time?” I scoff, my voice turning cruel, and I hate myself for it. “You think I’m dealing with one of your mistakes? I’ve had to put up with this shit between you and Chris since we started dating!”  
“There is nothing between-”  
“You just told me you kissed her!”  
“I know, but-”  
“And the poems?” Oh God, the poems. I’m referencing something as juvenile as his stupid poems. The ones I found in freshman year. “All the poems you wrote about her?”  
“They weren’t about her-”  
“How do you think they made me feel?” My voice cracks, pathetically.  
“Chris and I just have history, okay-”  
“Chris has met your parents!” Stupid baby tears are pricking my eyes. “You spent the whole summer on yachts with her and her cousins while you barely saw me-”  
“I keep telling you, our families are friends, there’s nothing I can do-”  
“Then why does she never go away?” I feel hot tears welling up and my face flushing, and Knox sees this and closes his eyes and starts massaging his eyelids. “You broke up nearly two years ago, why do I still feel like the rebound?”  
“For Christ’s sake, Carrie, I’ve known her since I was sixteen!” Knox snaps. “She was my first serious girlfriend, feelings don’t go away like that! I can’t just cut her out of my life.”  
“I know you won’t.”

There’s a few minutes of silence.  
“Do you have any classes today?” Knox asks softly.  
Trying to sound measured, “No.”  
“Me neither. Could we just sit here, and talk, and try to work this out?”  
“No. I have to go.”  
“I love you, Carrie.”  
I hesitate. “Too bad.”

I’VE DONE MY FAIR SHARE OF WALKS OF SHAME, but, strangely, walking from Knox's dorm, fully clothed, sober, and crying like a thirteen year old girl is the one that freaks people out the most.  
“I love you Carrie.” “Too bad.” That was such a stupid thing to say. And it was maybe the third or   
fourth time he’d said it. Stupid, stupid, stupid.  
“Come in.”

Leah and Zainab’s dorm, for the stoner artists they are, is actually tidier than you’d expect for them to keep it. Leah is sat at her desk, neatly daubing watercolour paints on a canvas, a pack of crackers beside her. Zainab, her full-figured roommate with thick bushy black hair and coke bottle glasses is sitting on her bed, laptop open, sloppily eating some pizza.  
“Hey,” my voice already cracking on the single damn word.  
“Hey,” says Leah, looking up.  
“Hey Carrie,” says Zainab.  
I burst into tears. Leah rushes over to me, knocking over a watercolour jar in the process, causing her to curse, and Zainab looks up concerned.  
“Whoa, whoa, what is it?”  
“I-I” I sob, “I- I went to Knox’s dorm and I-”  
“You’re still with that dude?” Zainab scoffs.  
“Last night he was with Chris, he told me,” and I just give up there and start howling.  
“Oh no,” says Leah, who instead of hugging me puts her hands around her mouth and starts screeching, while repeating “Oh no” over and over again.  
.. Is she crying?  
“Oh God, Carrie, I’m sorry, I’m just-” she bursts into giggles.  
“Why are you laughing?!”  
Zainab looks at me like I’m braindead. “Dude, can’t you smell it?”  
Ah. Yeah, that makes sense. I hadn’t even noticed. I half-heartedly apologise, and Zainab just sighs, picks up some rolling papers, and says:  
“Look, you’re upset, we’re stoned, your ex sounds like an asshole (are we exes now?), do you want to get high with us or not? At least we’d be able to talk on the same wavelength.”

“SO, TO REITERATE, Knox Overstreet is an asshole,” says Zainab, as we’re about to start our second box of pizza.  
“A nasty asshole who cheated on you with his ex,” adds Leah, working on the finishing touches of her watercolour.  
“Yup.”  
“You know he wrote poems about her while he and Carrie were dating?” Leah says to Zainab, while pizza squirts onto my chin as I dig into the pizza a little too eagerly.  
“Oh yeah, I read them,” says Zainab.  
I splutter. “You read them?”, my mouth full.  
Zainab stares at me a couple of seconds. “He published one of them in the school newspaper.”  
I rub at my eyes. How had I forgotten that. Freshman year, telling everyone about my cool, older boyfriend then finding a poem he’d written about a beautiful willowy blond girl that was painfully not me. I focus my eyes on Leah’s painting.  
“Yup, plus the only reason you even met him was because he crashed a freshman party,” Leah adds

“Tacky,” Zainab remarks.  
“I know,” I say.  
“Again: what an asshole.”  
“Such an asshole.”  
“An asshole,” I mutter, not really processing the words. Leah’s project is an abstract, but looking at the colours of it somehow remind me of a memory. The blues are bright and electric looking, and the pinks are strangely human-looking, like flesh.

The party we’d met at was in Cameron’s dorm, and he’d put up some blue Christmas lights that even then I remember thinking were cheap-looking, and Knox, who had cornered me by that time, and was on his third beer, and his face was flushed, which I remember finding sweet. It’s easy to tell when Knox is drunk. A couple seconds after that, he’d gripped my face with his thumb and clapped his fingers on the back of my neck, feeling the tiny hairs raise. Then we’d kissed. I don’t know why I’m remembering that.

I screw my eyes shut and rest my head on Leah’s shoulder.


	3. Fatal Attraction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're at the screening for Fatal Attraction! More drama happens!

CHAPTER THREE

“HEY,” Zainab is shoving me. “ Hey, wake up. Your phone’s buzzing.”

I already know that I’ve fucked up when I see the time and call log on my lockscreen.  
“Hello?”  
“Where are you?!” Meeks hisses  
“Oh shit, Meeks-”  
“You’re 30 minutes late! We had to get Todd to admit tickets and God, I love the guy but he cannot sell tickets unchaperoned!”  
“Don’t worry,” I say, shaking Leah awake, “We’ll be there.”  
“I’M SORRY,” I say, as Leah an I run the auditorium with five minutes to go before the film screens. Meek glares at us and hisses at us to man the doors with Todd, before dashing up to the stairs to help Pitts with the projector.

Todd is standing at the doors, blushing as he takes forever to count up change.  
“Hey,” I say, standing next to him at the door, as Leah unpacks a box of fun-size Mars bars and starts aggressively selling them to members of the audience.  
“Hi,” and then he goes red again and points at me.  
“Your-uh- your blouse..”  
Leah looks over and guffaws. “Carrie, your tits!”  
I look down, expecting my bra to be showing or something, but, nope. From my abdomen to my boobs, my shirt is covered in tomato sauce. I must have fallen asleep halfway through the third pizza and fallen chest-first on top of it.  
“Fuck,” I mutter, trying to scrub at it with my fingernails. I see Todd politely looking into space, even though I’m blocking the entrance and holding up the line.  
“Sorry,” I say, trying and failing to get rid of the dried blobs of sauce.  
“It’s okay,” he smiles politely. “Actually, um, do you want my sweatshirt?”  
“Uh, yeah, actually, just to stop people staring,” and he unzips it and hands it to me.  
  
  
Todd, although shockingly polite, barely says a word for the next couple of minutes. I engage in some feeble small talk.  
“So, Todd, do you like _Fatal Attraction_?”  
“Uh, no,” he smiles, “Glenn Close isn’t really my thing.”  
“Blasphemy!” Leah hisses, as she walks past us to dim the lights; the film’s starting, and Todd is about to go sit down, but I pull him back.  
“Sorry, we have to stand up for the whole thing. Prevent people sneaking in and stuff.”  
“Oh, okay.”  
“Yeah, now you get why there’s only four of us back this year,” I chuckle, “It’s a pretty thankless job.”  
“Yeah,” he grins, “But you love it, right?”  
“Yeah, I guess I do.” I pause. “I dunno, there’s something kind of nice about screenings to me. It’s therapeutic.”  
  
As soon as I say this, I regret it because I know how sad it must look for a recently dumped girl with red eyes from crying and weed and pizza sauce all over her chest to suddenly talk about how find she finds screenings therapeutic, to a random classmate she’s never properly talked to. I can’t see Todd’s face clearly, but I’m sure he thinks I’m crazy.  
  
“I get that, especially in the dark and all,” his voice still quiet and nervous, but a little less so.  
“And stress-eating the popcorn,” I say, and I hear Todd laugh.  
“Are you butter or salt?”  
“Both. I think you can tell by the giant pizza stain on my chest they’re my go-tos in times of despair,” and Todd politely laughs again. And again I mentioned how sad I am, and how I comfort eat when I’m sad. Any possible crush on me or just any perception that I wasn’t totally crazy has clearly dissipated in Todd’s mind.  
  
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out, and in my head chastise myself for saying sorry and making it even weirder, “for unloading about eating and the movies being an escape thing-”  
“Oh, no, it wasn’t-”  
“It’s just.. I found out my boyfriend cheated on me with his ex-” Oh good God _where_ is this coming from why can’t I stop it-  
“Oh, I didn’t know that-”  
“Yeah, I just found out about six hours ago,” Oh God. Abort. Abort. _Abort_.  
“Look,” I say, “Do you have somewhere to be?”  
“Uh..”  
“No, I mean, do you want to go home?” How am I managing to make this worse?!  
“Not with me! I mean, I can take this from here. We rarely have people sneaking in and you’ve already helped us out with the tickets-”  
“Oh, no, I don’t-”  
“No, really, you should go,” coming off way too forceful.  
“Um, okay.” I can tell I’ve hurt Todd’s feelings but I don’t want to apologise all over again because a couple of people in the front row have turned their heads to look at us. “Bye!” I say, trying too hard to seem nice, and I hear a couple girls giggle. I turn, and lit up a little by the light of the movie, I see Chris and one of her friends laughing and whispering.  
  
  
_Dan Gallagher: You're so sad. You know that, Alex? Lonely and very sad._  
_Alex Forrest: Don't you ever pity me, you smug bastard._  
_Dan Gallagher: I'll pity you... I'll pity you. I'll pity you because you're sick._  
_Alex Forrest: Why? Because I won't allow you to treat me like some slut you can just bang a couple of times and throw in the garbage?_  
  
Chris sees me staring and quickly turns away. I make sure not to take my eyes off of her for the rest of the scene. I’m not dealing with this very well.  
  
**“SO, ARE YOU MRS TODD ANDERSON NOW?”** Leah jokes. As an apology we told Meeks and Pitts we’d clean up the auditorium ourselves, so she’s asking me this as she picks up a mars bar wrapper off the ground.  
“What?” I’m totting up the money. For the beginning of the season, we’ve made a pretty good profit.  
“You’re still wearing his hoodie. If this were freshman year, we’d be expecting a marriage proposal by now, or at least the mild exchange of bodily fluids.”  
“Oh shit,” I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’ll have to return it to him or give it to Meeks to give back to him or something.”  
“It’s just a hoodie, relax,” Leah shrugs, “I saw you guys talking a bit though, you seemed to get on well.”  
“Far from it,” I mutter, “I ended up telling him about Knox and accidentally offering to go home with him. The poor guy probably thinks I’m out of my mind.”  
“Oof.”  
“Fuck!” I lose count and snap the box shut so hard Leah flinches. Ridiculously, I feel a lump coming in my throat, and Leah can see this. She scrunches up another wrapper, then puts a hand on my shoulder.  
“Damn,” she says, her eyes full of sympathy. “ This has really gotten to you, hasn’t it?”  
I nod. “I just- I just can’t stop thinking about it.”  
“I know.”  
“Or him. Or telling random people about it, apparently.”  
“You told Todd Anderson, the dude won’t exactly go spreading it round.” She’s right. Todd’s a good egg. But I still feel crazy for springing all of that on him.  
  
“You know how I said you and Dalton should be in an 80s romcom?” She nods. “What kind of romcom do you think I’d be in?”  
She hesitates for a second. “Well.. it would be black and white, Knox would die in a plane crash..” I chuckle. “But, in all honesty, Knox’d be the dude who’d mess you around with for the first act- the foppish asshole with the too good hair and the fancy coat- while the real guy was still in the background getting ignored. Like His Girl Friday.”  
“Nah. She gets back together with Cary Grant at the end of that movie. She marries the asshole.”  
“Oof, my bad.”  
“But I like your ending better. Do you think it’ll happen?”  
“Of course. Hey, that could be the screenplay you write!”  
I smile. “Maybe.”

 **LEAH AND I LOCK UP** , and she hugs me goodbye, telling me to call her if I want to try it out. And then I’m alone in my room. My dorm is specific to my scholarship- so, it’s small, only housed about five students this year, so I don’t have to share a room. That said, it’s fucking tiny and has a permanently musty smell. But, having grown up with siblings half my life, it’s nice to have something of my own. I lie down on my bed, close my eyes, and start playing the little movie in my head. When I was around twelve, I found out that a boy I liked, Scott Lillis (amazingly, the fifteen year old sophomore was unreceptive to my middle school charms), liked another girl (Sophia Porter, also fifteen) and went crying to my mom about it, who consoled me then promptly put on one of her favourite romcoms, _Sleepless in Seattle_. It did help, but was also a little maladaptive- while trying to move on, I pictured skinny, puberty-ridden Scott Lillis as a single dad whose wife Sophia was conveniently dead, while I was this beautiful blonde journalist living in New York. After that, I burned through romcoms and silly crushes, editing the stories in my head as I learned more tropes; Jared Stone and I were warring journalists, Peter Thornton confessed his love for me on his deathbed. It eventually evolved into amateur screenwriting. I’m a 1940s heiress, who’s recently divorced her husband after finding out he’s cheating, and, seeking to escape the stifling social etiquette of the upper class, I start working at a cheap tabloid, and catch the eye of a smart, working class journalist; while my ex-husband desperately tries to win me back. Embarrassing as it sounds, I was right about what I said to Todd. Movies can be therapeutic.


End file.
